Football is a game that takes hours to play but is defined by seconds. A fumble. A slip. A snap decision. You add those moments together and more than any statistic, they tell you who won. Here was Scott Mitchell, on the ledge of such a moment, late in the game, his debut in Detroit, trailing by a touchdown, his knee throbbing from an earlier collision and the new radio speaker in his helmet squawking like some old Russian telephone.Also, it was fourth down.And they were using their last time-out."Let's pass it," one of the coaches said.
Today we will deal with the very important subject of forecasting the weather, which began, of course, in prehistoric days, when groups of cavemen sat in a circle, looking at the sky, until one of them finally stood up and clubbed his wife over the head. Then they all went home.You have to admire that kind of thinking. The caveman knew he had absolutely no control over the weather, so why bother? Modern man is not so smart. Modern man wants Information. Especially Weather Information. How else do we explain the local TV news?
WIMBLEDON -- In a good play, the secondary characters peel away, one at a time, taking their bows, until the star of the show is left alone in the applause. This is how it should be. This is how it was Saturday afternoon, under warm and cloudy skies at Centre Court, Wimbledon. Martina Navratilova shook hands with history, solo at last, and took her bows.
NEW YORK -- So there we were with nothing to do on a Monday night in Boston except maybe eat another lobster and talk about Bill Buckner's spring training when I suddenly turned to Mary Schroeder, our ace photographer, and said, "Say, Mary. I've got a smashing idea. Let's jet on down to the Big Apple for the premiere of that hot new comic sensation that everyone is talking about. Won't that be a stitch!"And Mary said: "Spiffy!"And I said: "James, call the limo!"
* Detroit 21, Chicago 20: Now look. If Erik Kramer has a good game, the first person around here who asks"Why can't we get a quarterback like that?" I slap.* Indianapolis 24, Washington 6: Let me get this straight. The Skins are paying millions to Heath Shuler, hundreds of thousands to John Friesz, and they're starting a guy named Gus Frerotte at quarterback? Gus Frerotte?
First of all, about the haircut. He does it himself. Before each game. Calls it the "high inside fade, with the bald spot and the sideburns." When he explains this, he rubs the naked skin above his ear and smiles, a huge smile, a smile that will make him famous one day."The sideburns," he proudly notes, "are my personal thing. You got to be a little different, you know."Next, the earring. Little gold thing. Goes with the sideburns, I guess. He only wears it off the field, away from the football team. Coaches just don't understand. You know how it is.
New YORK -- Next time I go to a tennis tournament, I'm bringing a 6-month-old baby, a barking dog, and my rather large friend, Mendel, who tends to eat a lot of Mexican food, then burp. And when some umpire asks us to leave because the poor tennis player can't concentrate on his serve, I'm going to stand up, turn to my group, and lead it in a resounding chorus of: "WAAAH! Grrrrr. Urrp!"Which brings us to today's subject: Monica Seles.And grunting.
One by one they pushed the door open and reacquainted themselves with destiny. Joe Dumars, as usual, was first man in. He took a seat by his locker, with his trademark can of Coke, and his trademark disc player and headphones. He had his trademark book, a novel. At his feet, as usual, sat two of the young Pistons ball boys. They were opening his mail."Somebody wants you to test-drive drive a Rolls-Royce," said one, reading the invitation."A Rolls-Royce?" said Dumars, not looking up.'Yeah. 'We want you to experience the luxury of our . . . um . . . ' "
Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.
